“You could say that.”

“A lot?”

He shrugs.

“Still?”

“No.”

“Because . . . ?”

Sawyer is quiet for a minute. “Because I gave up.”

Kate stares at him. “Gave up on what?”

He hesitates, like he’s thinking about the answer. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Come on, tell me.”

Sawyer shakes his head. “No. You done? We need to get back in there.” He takes the girl gently by the shoulders, turns her around to face the door, opens it, and ushers her in. The door closes hard behind them.

And I stand in the parking lot, dumbfounded. Somebody hit the guy I love. I want to kill whoever it is. But first I have to save my boy. On Valentine’s Day.

Fuck.

• • •

My phone rings, jolting me back to reality. It’s not Trey calling, like I expect. It’s Demarco’s Pizzeria. Which means it’s a parental unit on the other end.

“Crap,” I mutter. Customer guy walks back out of Angotti’s with a takeout package as I answer. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound breathless. “I left something at the library—my purse. Really important—on the way home now.”

There is ominous silence on the other end. I squinch my eyes shut. “Hello?” I say finally.

The normally booming voice is eerily quiet. “Get back here. Now.”

“I’m coming!” I start to say, but he hangs up.

• • •

I was grounded before. Now it’s like I’m the haboob of groundedness. Back at the restaurant, in between tables, Trey gives me concerned looks. My mother is worried that I’m getting addicted to something—it doesn’t matter what, she just keeps saying, “Are you addicted?” every twenty minutes. My father goes upstairs as soon as he supergrounds me, apparently overwhelmed by my disobedience, and Rowan looks like she’s going to cry because her big sister never used to get into trouble and it’s apparently scary as hell for her to see me “like this.” Whatever this is.

And I’m floored. “All I did was leave for, like, a half hour,” I keep explaining. “I came right back. I’m not doing drugs, I’m not addicted to anything, I’m not pregnant, people. Jeez.” I feel like a broken record. “I’m sixteen, Mom,” I say to her. “Do I really have to tell you everything? I think you need to let me grow up a little, and stop . . . hovering.”

“Hovering!” she says. “Hovering? As long as you live in this house, I’ll hover all I want, thank you very much. We feed you, we give you a warm place to sleep, you have a nice job in the family business, and what do you give back? You go off without telling anybody, you leave your customers, you cavort with that Angotti boy, and you don’t appreciate anything we do for you. And then you say ‘Stop hovering’?”

I sigh. “Mom, please don’t yell. The customers can hear you. I’m sorry. I appreciate you. I should have told somebody I was leaving—I get that. I get that an ordinary worker would be fired for taking off like I did. I just . . . I panicked when I realized I forgot . . . something.” I take her hand. “I’m sorry, okay?”

She shakes her head, all worked up. “You are going to be the death of me,” she says. “And your father. And your little sister. What kind of example are you?”

Oh, that’s so, so nice. “Well, maybe you’d better ask my little sister—” I start to say, but then I soften when I see Rowan’s face, her wide eyes begging me not to tell her secret.

“Ask her what?” my mother says. “She’s not the one in trouble here.”

“Ask her . . . why . . .” I falter, unable to think.

Rowan steps up. “Ask me why I didn’t tell you she was leaving,” she says. “Jules told me she was leaving to look for her . . . thing. And I didn’t think to tell you. And she was just . . . being . . . noble by not ratting me out. Or whatever.”

I hold Rowan’s gaze for a minute, both of us knowing our story sounds ridiculously contrived.

Mom’s not buying it. She shakes her head. “You’re in cahoots. I don’t believe either of you anymore.” She turns away and takes her next order from Tony, leaving Rowan and me standing there, afraid to even look at each other. We both disperse and get busy, working like our lives depend on it.

• • •

When the rush is over, Trey pulls me aside. “What are you doing?”

I’m tempted to say I’m waiting tables, but the look on his face tells me not to screw around. “Nothing. I don’t know. I had to check something so I left. Mom’s pissed.”

He frowns. “Are you still seeing those . . . crashes?”

“Yes,” I say. “And it’s just one crash. I see one crash, the same one, over and over. Snowplow hits the back of Angotti’s, and the place explodes. Dead bodies. Happy?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and bites his lip. He can’t look at me. “Jules, I think it’s time . . .”

“Look, I know what you’re thinking. Just give me through Saturday, okay? If it’s still happening on Sunday, I’ll do whatever you want. We can tell Mom, I can go see a shrink—whatever you want, okay? Promise. I just need to get through Valentine’s Day.”

Trey looks into my eyes, and I can tell he’s trying to see if I’m lying.